Teardrops on Silk
by LadyLukia
Summary: Tragedy ahoy! Christine is haunted by memories of her angel, but what if some decisions eternally affect our lives? Rated T for...UNDERAGE PARTYING!...Not really.
1. Think of Me

**A/N: Yay for me, back from my holidays! I definitely took some time off there for a while. Over the break, I found this little tidbit saved on a floppy disc and decided to finish what I started. So…uh…yeah…this be the goods. I have never posted one of my phanfics on ffdotnet before, so I'll tell you beforehand that I am a HUGE E/C fanatic and Raoul hater. And I absolutely adored the 2004 movie, even more than the book and the 1925 version with Lon Cheney. Eh, what am I talking about? I never liked the Lon Cheney version that much anyway. Before I start rattling, let me list, from most favorite to least favorite, the versions that I've seen (and read). That way, you can get to know my preferences. :)**

**-2004 movie (OMG…Gerry Butler was the best Phantom ever, hands down.)**

**-1992 (I think that was the year) TV miniseries**

**-Gaston Leroux's novel**

**-The Broadway show (I've seen it twice)**

**-Susan Kay's Phantom**

**-1925 version**

**-1940 (Once again, I'm unsure about the year) movie version with Claude Raines. I thought it was rather boring.**

**-A tie for 1989's movie with Robert Englund (aka Freddy Krueger) as Erik and 1998's Fantasma de l'opera. Both were absolutely horrible; cheesy, disgusting, and just plain BAD. But hey, I'm not a fan of slasher movies.**

**So, yeah. In most of my phanfics, I'll be basing Erik off of Gerry Butler's portrayal. So don't picture him as the all-over ugly that Lon Cheney was…think of Gerry's sexiness. This might seem a little shallow, but I thought how Gerry's Erik looked like a normal, handsome man with the mask on made him look much more believable. I always found Lon's version to look comical rather than frightening. It's a shame, because he underwent some pretty painful stuff to achieve his look. And I especially loved how the 2004 version pictured Erik as a young man, as opposed to someone who could be Chrissy's grandfather…It just made me think of pedophilia in the latter case. Well, I didn't mean to write a review. So, on with the sadness… (:snorf:)**

Rain drummed rhythmically on the windows of the Manor de Chagny, the occasional thunderclap sending rolling tremors down the halls. Christine Daae was seated at a mahogany desk, her eyes not on the thing she had since given up writing but instead staring at the dismal gray sky, then down to the street past the garden. Not a soul was in sight. It seemed as though she was the only person in the world at the moment; on this dreary April afternoon. Beside the sounds of nature, silence echoed numbly around her. But she heard the door swing open across the room, and whipped her head around as she so often did, just to see if it really could be who she thought it was. But instead her plump little maid, all prim and fussy in her starched white apron, came bustling in with the laundry basket. It never was who she expected. Why bother even looking anyway?

She watched, mildly interested, as Madame Camerie gathered the nightgown she had left strewn on the floor this morning. It was so utterly predictable, the way Madame would putter around, tsk-ing and tutting. And yet, she seemed so cheerful and peaceful, Christine was almost envious. "_Merci, Claire_," she called after Madame Camerie as she left the room, leaving Christine to her solitude. The young woman sighed heavily and again stared down at the paper before her. She had aimlessly, almost subconsciously, had sat down at the desk, pen in hand, and had written for an hour, at least. For all her efforts was a rather weak attempt at a song…

_Scarred by emotion, plagued by a memory,_

_Shall we forget of the things we once knew?_

_Return to the places so long forgotten,_

_Revisit the thoughts of myself and of you._

_How strange a fleeting sight, smell, or sound_

_Can bring back such dreams of old._

_I wonder if you still think of the past_

_And let your unforgotten memories unfold._

It was dreadful, Christine knew it. It would never compare to anything as hauntingly beautiful as he might have written. She thought of his music and felt a rising pain in her throat; a quelling feeling that made her eyes glaze with unshed tears. She sang softly to herself.

"_You alone can make my song take flight,_

_Help me make the music of the night."_

Her eyes became moist, but not a tear fell. She bowed her head silently and sighed. _Angel of Music, I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the future. And of the past. I just don't know what to do._

There was the sudden weight of a hand upon her shoulder. Taken by surprise, she jumped and turned her head to see who it was. There was the slightest, most miniscule glimmer of hope deep within her, but it faded as she saw Raoul's smiling face behind her. Smiling that stupid simpering smile. Oh, how strange that the face she had so cherished a mere two months ago now caused her such agony to gaze upon! How she would have given anything to see that terribly handsome one, half-hidden behind the porcelain mask, beaming at her! Hell, she even would have been glad to see him without his mask! It was such a simple yearning, yet so impossible it would take a true God-sent miracle. And God certainly owed her no favors.

Christine gave her best attempt to look pleased. "Oh, Raoul! You surprised me. You're home early." He wrapped his arms around her neck---she shuddered inwardly---and planted a kiss on her forehead. "_Bonjour, m' amie._ I decided to come home early and surprise you. And what should I hear when I walk in but that lovely song you were singing! What was it, Christine? I've never heard anything like it before."

Her mind froze and she sat staring at Raoul with a blank look. He looked back at her, imploringly, prompting her to whip up an answer. "Oh, it's nothing. Just an old song my…father used to play," she lied. That seemed to satisfy him. He stood straight up. "It was very nice. You know, I've been saying you ought to audition at the new opera house. You used to enjoy singing so much."

Silence was the reply. If Raoul had cared to notice, he would have seen how his fiancé had suddenly seized up with contempt. Contempt and sorrow. Contempt at the man before her who so carelessly tossed such a delicate matter around, and sorrow for the man who had inspired her voice. Since that night, she couldn't find a reason to sing. Each note, while beautiful, lacked emotion and feeling…everything that made it real. She wondered vaguely if she had in fact given up her freedom to him, would she still sing like she once did? She knew the answer. Of course. It was his spirit and her voice, in one combined. Without his spirit, she had no voice. And God, the Phantom of the Opera was still there, inside her mind.

**Why don't you leave a little review for Issie-belle? You know you want to!**


	2. Expect the Unexpected

Every day felt like a millennia to Christine as she was sabotaged with plans for the wedding. Wasn't it the bride who was supposed to take delight in arrangements for the supposed most magical day of her life? Well, in this case, Raoul was the one who eagerly made appointments for his fiancé. Might as well he be the one walking down the aisle in a white dress; he simply couldn't be stopped. If it hadn't been for Raoul and her own personal assistants, there wouldn't even be a date set. But, ah, without doubt, the vicomte had appointed July 25 as the day of the nuptials. Much to Christine's dismay, that was a mere four months away. Four months! Hardly time enough to find an excuse not to go through with the marriage. But Christine had already realized she could never find an excuse. She would play the role of wife to the smitten Raoul for the rest of her days, while her angel was held prisoner by his own chains in the catacombs of the Populaire. The thought sickened her; tortured her. She couldn't bear to think of him hunched over his organ, pounding out some grief-stricken ode to their doomed love. But, unfortunately for her, it was constantly surfacing in her mind.

A few days after her ill-fated attempt at song-writing, Christine was in the drawing room, flipping absentmindedly through a book of wedding dresses. She wasn't really attempting to choose a gown; rather, she was doing it to appease Raoul. He was out today, at a business meeting at his public office. Political affairs. Droll stuff. It was a rainy day once again, the sky slate-gray with overbearing clouds. Christine had half a mind to go outside and run around and hope to drown in the torrential downpour, but she decided it was more comfortable curled up in this armchair. She had just finished going through the book a third time when the crystal chime of the doorbell resounded through the manor. She knew by now to make no attempt to answer it. The manservant would not only do that but also introduce the guest to the vicomtess-to-be. Seeing how it was probably just some stuffy old relative of Raoul's come to visit the newest addition to the family (as it so often was), Christine concluded that she probably wouldn't bother even if there wasn't a manservant there to greet the visitor. She was quite surprised when the butler appeared through the doorway followed by a petite, fine-featured blonde whose face Christine knew quite well.

"Mademoiselle Megan Giry," the butler stated. He slipped out of the room as the two women embraced. "Meg!" Christine cried. "Oh, Meg! You've come to see me!" She motioned for the ballerina to have a seat on the divan. She herself returned to the plush armchair. She smiled happily, her first sincere smile in two months. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Meg returned the smile. She was the same as ever, willowy and slender, though perhaps a little – the tiniest bit –weary in appearance. Christine knew that she and her mother had lost their only home in the fire and could no longer rely on the opera to care for them. Madame Giry had taken a job at a local dance studio as an instructor and Meg was now a _serveuse_ at some café. It was hardly a job befitting her true destiny as a ballerina, but until the Populaire was reconstructed, it was the only way they could manage. Christine and Raoul had at first offered them a home at the deChagny manor, but the mother and daughter had politely refused. Every day Christine worried about them, but it seemed her thoughts were misplaced: Meg was well-groomed and was wearing a nice satin dress trimmed with lace. Christine's heart lightened at the sight of her. "So, Meg, how are you?"

"I'm fine, _cher_ Christine. A little tired, but faring well. But, Christine," She leaned in towards the brunette as though telling a secret. "How are _you_?"

It was the way she had accentuated the last word, along with the concerned expression on her face, that took Christine aback. "I'm fine, Meg. Why shouldn't I be?" Meg shook her head impatiently. "You've lost weight Christine. I saw as soon as I walked in. You just don't seem to look like yourself."

"Why, that's silly, Meg. I'm fine, I assure you." _No, I'm not._

"If you say so."

There was a long, contemplative pause, during which the manservant reappeared with two glasses of wine. Each girl took one and he disappeared, leaving them to continue the conversation.

Meg took a long sip of her wine, and her brow furrowed apprehensively. She placed the goblet on the cherrywood table beside the divan. "Christine," she said at last. "I've come here to tell you something."

A thousand possibilities flooded the bride-to-be's mind, the most prominent one being that Meg, Madame Giry, and the Opera Ghost had formed a plan to help her escape the deChagny manor and the insolent vicomte. "Yes, Meg?"

The blonde drew a deep breath. "Christine, this news…it will effect you the most, I'm sure. You were, after all…" Her voice trailed off. She took another small sip of wine and continued. "Um...my mother. She has been worried about the Phantom of the Opera ever since the incident – You know how she always seemed to be close to him…it seemed" – Christine's heart seized up. The Phantom? – "And last evening, she went to the Opera House…well, at least, the beginnings of the reconstruction, and managed to find an old passageway that had not been touched by the fire or the construction workers. She entered it, and was able to find her way down to his lair."

Christine couldn't bear it. She interrupted her friend anxiously. "Was he there, Meg? Was he?"

Meg studied her friend's face, concern etched across her own. "…He was, Christine. But, Christine…he was ill, very ill. Mother says she found him at the organ. He was so weak he could barely sit up. Mother went to him, and he…um…he told her to tell you that he was sorry. So sorry."

Christine felt a horrible, crushing feeling in her chest. "What else, Meg?" she whispered.

"He said that he loved you."

"What else, Meg? Where is he now?"

Christine already knew the answer. But it took hearing it spoken as the truth for her to believe it.

"He died, Christine. Mother said he died almost immediately afterwards."

The glass of wine fell from Christine's hands, crashing upon the wooden floor. The young woman followed it, sinking to her knees. Meg sprang to her feet. "Christine? Christine!"

Tears were falling fast and hard from her gray eyes. Her arms wrapped around herself, holding her shaking body. Sobs racked through her soul; agony such as she had never felt was consuming her. He was dead. She was the reason why, she knew it. Instead of saving him from solitude and misery, she had rather given him all reason to lose the will to live. He would never come back for her now. She could never go back to him. Christine's mind swam in shock and despondency until raw emotion overwhelmed her and the world went black.

**

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A/N: Well, not much to say here. Just wanted to tell you that there is going to be another chapter, so stay tuned!**


	3. From My Solitude

Surely one couldn't go through such pain and not be dead. Surely a heart really could shatter into a million pieces. Christine knew it. Her own heart had broken. There was a dull ache over her entire body. She drifted in and out of consciousness, though she didn't know it. It was though she had emerged in a dream world, where she was floating in secluded darkness. Voices murmured through the obscurity, but they were indistinct and unnamable. She could barely even begin to think. Whenever she dared to do so, she slipped even further away. How long this went on, she didn't know.

_Christine._

The echo of a whisper. She turned her head towards the sound.

_Christine._

"Christine?"

The chocolate eyes fluttered open and blinked uncertainly in the light. The shapes became clearer, and she saw that she was lying in the bedchamber that had become her own since she had moved into the de Chagny manor. She was in her nightgown, the silken covers were drawn up to her shoulders. The curtains had been drawn on the windows. She looked beside the bed and saw Raoul's face, which was etched with relief.

"Oh, thank God she is awake!" he breathed, pushing his face closer to hers. He inhaled the scent of lilacs that radiated from his fiancé and nuzzled his chin into her hair. Christine winced in pain. Her head felt tender. She turned her head so that Raoul was forced to back away. She opened her mouth to speak and found that the words that came out of her mouth slurred slightly. "Raoul. Raoul, how long have I been asleep?"

"A little over a day, my dear. Mademoiselle Giry is here, and so is her mother."

It was then that Christine saw the face of the ballet mistress, ever regal and elegant. She was standing behind Raoul, an unreadable expression across her features. She eyed Christine as a hawk does to its prey. The younger woman knew, immediately, that her matron had come for a reason.

"We concluded that you were just so stressed, what with the wedding coming up, that you just became besieged and passed out!" Raoul exclaimed cheerfully. "I mean, really, _cherie_, I'm excited too, but you mustn't overload yourself!"

_What!_ Christine's mind screamed._ What lie is this!_ She looked at Madame Giry.

_Don't say a word_, the ballet mistress mouthed. _We will talk later._

Christine pretended to smile happily. "Why, yes, Raoul, I certainly shall not. My dear, I am tired. To you think I could rest for a while, with Madame Giry in here to accompany me?"

Raoul took on the expression of a puppy who had just been kicked, but he seemed to recover this emotional blow quickly. "Of course, Christine, I'm sure you are fatigued. Rest now, my love." He kissed her wrist gently, then stood up from his chair which he had pulled to the bedside and strode to the door, shutting it behind him. Christine waited a few moments before she turned to the woman beside her.

"Madame Giry."

"…Christine…"

"Oh, Madame Giry…!"

The matron caught the girl in her arms as she collapsed, feeling the young bride-to-be's warm tears against her shoulders. Christine shook uncontrollably as fresh sobs spilled from her. "Madame Giry! Erik! He's _dead! He's dead!_" The ballet mistress' reverent silence urged her to cry even harder, letting her emotions bare, raw and exposed. "_Why?_ Why did this have to happen!"

Madame Giry clutched the girl close to her. "Christine. I'm sorry. Truly I am."

"It's---It's my fault."

There was a stunned silence on the matron's part. Uncertainly, her eyes widened. "What?"

"Don't play the fool, Madame. Meg told me."

The older woman's eyes narrowed in indignation and she muttered beneath her breath, something Christine couldn't hear through her own weeping. But her strained expression relaxed into one of subdued guilt. "He wanted you to know…what he said."

"I know. I'm the reason. Don't you see? This may sound arrogant, but he loved me. He honestly did. He needed me to…to save him."

_Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime._

_Lead me, save me from my solitude._

_Say you want me with you here, beside you._

_Anywhere you go, let me go to,_

_Christine, that's all I ask of you!_

Oh God. He had. More than she knew. His tender confession after they sang his aria together had been so much more than just a song. It had been longing. It had been despair. It had been hope. It had been devotion. More than anything, it had been love. Anguish such as Christine had never felt was threatening to destroy her.

"He loved me."

"I know," Madame Giry whispered. "I always knew."

"I'm the reason he's dead. He couldn't...Oh, God!"

She buried her face into the matron's shoulders and let her stroke the chestnut curls cascading down her back. She cried for what seemed like hours, until her comforter broke the silence. "Christine," she murmured. "Tell me: Did you love him?"

That was the question Christine had been dreading, but she knew she couldn't hide from the truth anymore. She stared at Madame Giry with teary eyes. "…Yes. Yes, I did. I still do."

"Oh, _pauvre, pauvre _Christine. _Mon tragique fille._"

Christine cried harder than ever before, and the Madame held her, silent tears streaming down her own cheeks. She rocked the quivering girl back and forth. "Oh Christine. _Pauvre fille. Pauvre _Erik."

Madame Giry held her until Christine fell asleep, overcome by exhaustion and pain.

* * *

When Christine awoke a few hours later, the salty residue of her tears still clinging to her cheeks, it was midday. Predictably, the rain had persisted since the early morning hours. Lightning lit up the cream-and-mahogany paneling of the bedroom and cast shadows on the wall. Uncertainly, Christine slid her legs from underneath the covers and attempted to stand up. She wobbled a bit, but after a few steps she found her balance. She retrieved her robe from the armoire, raked a brush through her frenzied curls, and left the bedroom. The library was the room next door. Raoul was sitting inside, reclining in a royal-blue armchair. He motioned for her to come in. Hesitantly, Christine took a seat in the chair opposite him, noticing that Raoul's book sat untouched on the end table. "Yes, Raoul?"

"So."

Oh, good Lord. She knew where this was going.

"Yes?" Might as well pretend to be innocent.

"I heard the news."

"About…?"

"The Opera Ghost. Good riddance, I say."

Christine froze, blood rushed to her cheeks, and a cascade of feelings---loathing, sorrow, and compassion most prominent. "Madame Giry told you, then?"

"Actually, no. Do you want to know where I heard it, hmm? I heard you sobbing from the bedroom and I listened outside the door. Seems there's a lot of things I didn't know about until now." His eyes glinted with spite. "Like, for instance, one tiny little detail that involves you _loving him_." He said it with such hate, such malevolence, that Christine was frightened. "Raoul, please---"

"Goddamn it, Christine!" He leapt to his feet and stood before his bride-to-be. To her shock, there were tears in his eyes. He sank to his knees and grasped her hands firmly in his. "Why?"

She thought of that night on the roof of the Populaire when Raoul had confessed his love to her. She wondered if she really meant what she had said to him then; perhaps she had only been besotted and desperate. Staring her fiancée in the eyes, she knew that was true. She didn't feel the surge of passion has she once did when she looked into the pools of blue, now rimmed with tears. She stared at him, and sang softly the same thing she had told him that night.

"_His voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound;_

_In the night, there was music in my mind._

_And through the music my soul began to soar._

_And I heard as I've never heard before._

_Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world,_

_Those pleading eyes, that both threaten and adore…"_

Now tears ran down both of their cheeks. Christine's were tears of sorrow; of loss. Raoul's were also tears of loss; now he understood that Christine's heart had never belonged to him. He laid his cheek across Christine's knees and squeezed his eyes shut. "Christine," he whispered. "Don't leave me. I love you. I love you too much. Please."

"What else am I to do?" Her voice was cold and forced. She suddenly stood up and brushed past the kneeling man. She turned to face him as she reached the door. "Raoul," she said carefully, sincerely, "You'll always be my friend. Always. But I'll never love you as I did Erik. And I'm sorry for that. I know how it must hurt you. I want you to understand that. May all the blessings of the world be with you: marry a woman you love, have children, be happy. I don't wish to be a burden."

She fled the library to her room. Thoughtlessly, she sat at her vanity and brushed her chocolate curls until they took on a brilliant, glossy luster. She painted her lips with a soft pink-champagne rouge and lightly blended gray powder along her lashes. For whatever reason, she wanted to be beautiful.

Christine silently stood and walked to the glass-paned doors that led to the balcony. Her feet stepped onto the rain-soaked flagstones, legs trembling with anticipation. Twenty or so feet below, there was a garden. The blood red roses, showered with opalescent raindrops, quivered slightly in the damp breeze, beckoning her. Her breath caught.

He would always be there for her, through death and beyond.

She pulled herself onto the iron balustrade, balancing herself gracefully, back arched elegantly. Her eyes were not on the ground beneath her; they looked to the sky above.

A million thoughts rushed through her mind, yet not a single worry among them. She leapt in a single fluid motion. She delighted in the empty air, savoring the wind as her hair flew behind her. For a moment she was suspended in space, seeing and feeling only everything within that instant. Her undying devotion. The thrill of a promise. And the beauty of true love. As her body began the arcing descent to the awaiting ground, she felt no fear. She smiled at the heavens and embraced death---and whatever else there was beyond it.

* * *

Christine's eyes slowly opened. A jolt of astonishment gripped her stomach and she gasped. She was back in the opera house, in its former glory. She stood at the head of the stairs, adorned in a glorious white gown. Everything around her glowed with a heavenly aura, and the very air she breathed relaxed her and energized her all at once. With a searching gaze she drank in the scene in the foyer below. A large crowd was gathered, dressed in their formalwear, around the entrance hall, clapping and smiling up at Christine. And, at the foot of the stairs…there he was. He stood waiting for her, a truly happy smile across his face. Without the mask. Yet the crowd showed no fear of the man in the midst of them. Every pair of eyes were turned to Christine, who slowly stepped down the grand staircase. All the while she watched him, feeling joy like she had never felt before. His azure eyes gazed lovingly into her chocolate ones. Finally she reached the floor. They embraced finally, and the crowd let out a tumultuous roar of applause. Christine buried her face into Erik's chest and gripped him tightly, tears of happiness running down her cheeks. She looked up at him and saw that he too was crying. Silently, with a warm smile, she reached a hand to the left side of his face---the flawed side---and caressed it gently. She brushed the tears from his skin and their lips met with passion. Then she took his hand, and to the cheering of the spectators, led him across the hall and through the doors, into the golden light beyond.

_Fin._

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Yay, it's complete! And, may I ask, who noticed that I totally ripped off _Titanic _for the ending? Minus the whole ship thing…But I thought it just fit. Cause Christine's leading him from the opera house into the light. Which I hope you understand is symbolic for heaven.**

**Anyway, I hope you had fun reading it. I appreciate your support and your comments; if you would, please leave a review. See ya soon with a new fic...probably gonna do some humor/parody works for a while. Luv always, Isabelle.**


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